


Training Exercise

by foxtrot77, tackytacs



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Chorus Arc, Fluff and Humor, Gen, I think I'm tagging these things correctly, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-03 15:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12751065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytacs/pseuds/tackytacs
Summary: Frustrated by Grif's penchant for hiding in closets and napping during training, Simmons decides to up the ante to motivate Grif to take a more active leadership role.As the saying goes, desperate times call for desperate measures. And explosives.





	Training Exercise

**Author's Note:**

> For the Red vs. Blue Reverse Big Bang. 
> 
> This was so much fun to write, and I had a great time collaborating with the amazing tackytacs. Their art is wonderful, check it out! Thank you for working on this fic with me!
> 
> Here is where you can find the art piece http://tackytacs.tumblr.com/post/167656255849/thanks-so-much-what-happened-to-agent-georgia-for .
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

Trying to get the New Republic soldiers and the Feds to get along is like locking a cat and a dog in a windowless room and telling them to ‘play nice’.

Simmons feels like the dumbass who locked them in there.

“You’re supposed to hit the _cone_ , Willems,” Alvarez snorts from where she’s standing on the edge of the makeshift firing range Simmons set up for joint target practice. She’s New Republic, from Simmons’s original team. Crossing her arms, she adds, “No wonder you guys didn’t win the war.”

“No one _won_ the war, idiot.” Willems lowers their gun to glare at Alvarez. “We made a truce.”

“Only because one of _our_ captains revealed Felix’s evil plot.”

“Well, who were the ones dumb enough to _trust_ Felix in the first place?” Willems retorts.

Excuse me?” Alvarez raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t see _you_ lot figuring out Locus was in on it anytime this century.”

Simmons sighs.

Willems versus Alvarez, Volleyball versus Persaud—someone’s always bickering. And it’s always the same argument: Who started it, who finished it, who was smart, who was dumb. Simmons almost misses how it was before Tucker and Epsilon broadcast Felix’s creepy monologue, ending a bloody civil war that had decimated the planets population and infrastructure.

 _Simpler times_ , he thinks. _When they all thought we were cool and everyone got along._

Simmons is all for everyone, you know, _not killing each other,_ and of course he’s glad the civil war has ended…

—But it was a lot easier to get his squad to listen to him (on the occasions he actually managed to string a sentence together) when it was only composed of News. Now he’s breaking up petty squabbles between old enemies on a daily basis. And this is on top of training a group of young people who, while sworn to kicking Felix and Locus’s asses, would rather be sleeping this early in the morning.

Speaking of sleeping.

Simmons tunes out Willems’s shrieking and Alvarez’s indignant squawking to glance around the training hall.

Agent Washington, Tucker, and Caboose are busy training their own troops. Washington seems to be in charge, but now and then Tucker doles out some wisdom of his own.

Caboose isn’t really participating in giving orders, but he _is_ running with the troops, outdoing them in every single drill and having the time of his life.

Carolina is busy at the punching bag. Simmons is surprised to see her here so early—she usually debriefs with Doyle and Kimball at this time. Then again, the trio’s meeting ended in heated words yesterday—anyone within a hundred yards could hear them. So maybe they’re taking a much needed break.

Sarge is absent from the training hall, but that’s normal. Being the leader of Red Team, he has more important duties than training a bunch of kids to fight off a band of highly skilled mercenaries. He’s probably in the armory with Lopez, polishing his shotgun and working on the blueprints for his latest master plan.

Simmons moves on to Gold—Orange?—Team.

Matthews is doing his best to break up a fist fight between a New and a Fed, though he looks more terrified than intimidating. Bitters is pretending to do pushups, and the rest of Gold Team is either doing half-hearted calisthenics or just standing around talking.

Fighting and low motivation aside, all members of Gold Team appear to be accounted for.

All but one, that is.

Simmons narrows his eyes.

Grif is nowhere to be seen.

 

 

Meanwhile, Grif is hunkering down in one of the New Republic’s many supply closets. Honestly, it’s like this base was made for avoiding responsibility. And naps. Nestling between a stack of towels and a rack of cleaning supplies, he pulls of his helmet and sighs as cool air hits his face. The power suits are a fucking nightmare, and the less time he has to spend wearing his the better. It’s bullshit the troops he’s (not) training don’t have to wear theirs for the first half of the day. He’s captain, he should get to wear whatever he wants!

Grif wishes he could get away with going into battle without his armor. They do it in the movies and stuff all the time. He could totally pull it off!

But this isn’t the movies, and he would have to have a death wish to fling himself head on into battle without armor. Sometimes, Grif thinks he has a death wish for getting involved in this civil war-turned-war-for-survival at all, but what did he expect? He’s always getting dragged into these things.

Anyway, hot and heavy it may be, the power suit is orange. When people here see _orange_ , they don’t think of pumpkins and certain citrus fruits. No, when they see _orange_ , they think _Grif_. And if he doesn’t have the orange armor, how will people know he’s Grif?

Without his orange armor, he’s just… some guy without armor.

“Dude,” Grif whispers to himself.

Grif wishes Simmons was here. He’s usually the person Grif dumps all his existential crises on.

Then again, if Simmons was here, he’d probably be yelling at him to get off his ass and do work and train his squad and all that jazz. Which is why he’s hiding in an obscure supply closet in a remote corner of the base.

It’s much easier to pretend it’s because he’s lazy. Grif is the Lazy One™, always willing to go the extra mile to put as little effort into something as possible. Ask anyone.

But if Grif’s being honest—and he likes to think he’s a pretty honest guy—he wants nothing to do with being a captain. That’s a lot of responsibility. He’s not talking about the paperwork or extra cleaning duties or whatever, either. He’s great at delegating, so the odds of him doing those extra things are slim to none.

No, the thing is, when you’re a leader, you’re responsible for _lives_. Lots of lives. Oodles and oodles of lives. And Grif doesn’t have a great track record for protecting people.

Look where trusting him got his allies in the Great War, or Kai, alone and probably dead in an abandoned base in the middle of the galaxy?

Grif shakes his head.

Leave the leading to the _real_ leaders, like Kimball and Carolina, or Wash and Tucker. They know what they’re doing.

“Goddammit,” Grif mumbles. He came here to get _away_ from life, not think about it.

Grif tugs his gloves off and tosses them aside. Turning toward the rack of cleaning supplies, he reaches underneath the bottom shelf. He feels around the cold cement floor until he hears the telltale crinkle of plastic as his fingers brush against something.

“Ah ha!” Grif cheers, grabbing the candy bar he squirreled away a few supply runs ago and pulling it out from beneath the shelf.

Grif rips open the candy bar and bites off a chunk.

As he eats, he takes in the fine layer of dust on everything, inhales the musty smell of neglect that’s the same no matter what planet you’re on. No one’s used this closet in ages.

 _I could chill here for hours and no one would ever know where to find me_. _Everyone would give up before they got this far,_ Grif thinks with a grin.

Then he frowns.

Well, there was one person who wouldn’t give up looking, even if his life depended on it. Only one person dedicated enough to search every storage closet on the entire fucking plan—

The door to the supply closet bangs open, and several towels topple off the stack and land on top of Grif.

“Grif!”

Speak of the fucking devil.

“Simmons!” Grif shouts back. He grabs a towel and chucks it at the maroon soldier, who tries to bat it away and misses. The towel slaps against his visor.

Flustered, Simmons crosses his arms in a vain attempt to establish some sort of authority. Then realizes the towel is still hanging from his helmet.

“What are you doing here?” Simmons snaps, yanking the towel off.

“I think we both know what I’m doing here, Simmons,” Grif says, popping the last piece of his candy bar into his mouth. “The real question is, why are _you_ here?”

“What?” Simmons throws his hands into the air. “Obviously, I’m here looking for you, dumbass!”

“Ya know, the thing about hiding, Simmons,” Grif says, crumpling up his candy wrapper, “is that people usually do it because they don’t _wanna be found_.”

“Unless it is hide and seek,” a familiar voice chimes in.

“Fuck!” Simmons yells, jumping a good foot into the air.

Grif sighs. He knows that voice, and he knows it means he can never use this place as a hiding spot ever again.

Simmons whirls around, nearly colliding with the hulking blue mass standing in the doorway.

“Caboose! Aren’t you supposed to be in the training hall?” Simmons asks. “With Agent Washington and, uh, Tucker, or something?”

“I want to play hide and seek instead,” Caboose says with a shrug. “It sounds more fun.”

Grif rises to his feet, letting out a groan as he leans down to scoop up his gloves and helmet. He lowers his helmet onto his head and fastens it into place. Back to feeling like he’s trapped in a sauna.

“No one’s playing hide and seek, Caboose,” Grif says.

“Then what are you doing in the closet?” Caboose asks.

“It’s a mystery,” Grif sighs.

“The only mystery is—agh!” Simmons yelps as Grif about knocks him over clambering out of the closet.

“C’mon, Simmons,” Grif says, lumbering off down the hall. “What would Sarge say if he saw you slacking off? For shame, Simmons, for shame.”

“Grif, you—”

“Mmmute,” Grif sings as he cuts off radio communication with Simmons.

Relishing the silence, Grif makes his way to the training hall, where the soldiers—aka, the lives he happens to be responsible for—are waiting for him.

He wonders how long he could get away with making his troops run laps while he naps standing up.

 

 

Simmons watches Grif saunter off down the hall. Once again, he’s managed to slack off, turn Simmons into a bumbling mess, and then somehow walk away with Simmons feeling like the guilty party, unsure of who started the argument in the first place.

“Yeah, soooo if we’re not playing hide and seek, I’m going to go now,” Caboose declares, and sprints away down the hall after Grif.

Simmons knows he should follow them, but he notices the state Grif the supply closet in and grimaces. He could just leave it. He could. In theory.

Will he leave it, though?

“Goddammit,” Simmons mumbles.

And, not for the first time (and certainly not the last, he knows), Simmons sets himself to cleaning up someone else’s mess.

Once he’s finished organizing the cleaning supplies, folding the towels, and stacking them neatly on top of one another, Simmons trudges off down the hall. Grif and Caboose are probably back at the training hall already—unless Grif took off for yet another of his seemingly infinite hiding places.

Simmons hopes his squad is done bickering and have gone back to the drills he gave them. He feels a sudden pang of guilt for leaving Jensen alone with them all, seeing as he just chewed Grif out. Then again, Grif left Bitters in charge of Gold Team. At least Jensen wouldn’t sprawl out on the floor and try to pass it off as doing crunches.

Simmons shakes his head.

At least he had a reason for leaving his troops alone. A good reason, that is. It’s not like he was even gone that long anyway.

Reaching the door to the training hall, Simmons prepares for whatever awaits him inside. Then he punches the “Open” button and marches in to find—

“Simmons!”

Sarge stands in the door, shotgun aimed right at Simmons face, and for the second time today, Simmons about jumps out of his armor.

Without waiting for Simmons to compose himself, Sarge takes a step closer.

“Why’re you late, Simmons?” he barks. “Never pegged you for a slacker!”

“No, sir, you don’t understand!” Simmons protests. “I was out looking for Grif, he’s—”

“Been here this whole time!” Sarge cuts him off. He gestures off to the right with his shotgun, where Grif is busy pointing at some obscure object in the corner of the room while ordering his squad to run towards it while carrying weights and even a couple punching bags. Simmons has no idea what the purpose of this exercise is, except perhaps endurance for the troops and amusement for Grif.

With a sigh, Simmons turns to face Sarge once more.

“But, sir—”

“But nothin’! I can’t believe _you_ are being lazier than _Grif_!” Sarge cries. “Breaks m’ heart to see you go downhill like this, Simmons!”

Simmons opens his mouth to argue but decides his energy will be better served elsewhere.

“Sorry, sir,” he grumbles.

“I should say so!” Sarge harrumphs. He gives Simmons a curt nod before marching out of the training hall. Off to bigger and better things, Simmons supposes. Like creating killer robots.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simmons sees Grif looking at him. He can’t see his face through the visor, but he can bet Grif’s got that grin, that fucking grin that says _I win_.

Maybe this round. Simmons scowls, hoping Grif can feel his annoyance and anger. The orange sim trooper just shrugs and, now that Sarge is no longer present, plops down onto the floor with his arms folded behind his head.

Simmons stomps over to his own squad, where Alvarez has successfully pinned Willems to the mat while the other troops egg them on.

He’ll deal with Grif later.

 

 

 Grif knows Simmons is pissed.

Simmons has his hands full taking care of his own squad. Alvarez and Willems have been at each other’s throats for days, not to mention Volleyball refusing to talk to any of the Feds for two days. Grif didn’t think she’d ever come around, but somehow Simmons and Jensen managed to talk her down.

That being said, no one asked Simmons to go looking for Grif. Simmons made that choice all by himself.

Grif watches as Simmons and Volleyball yank Alvarez and Willems apart. Willems continues swinging their arms, almost taking Volleyball out in the process.

At least _Grif’s_ team is as lazy as he is.

Well, some of his team is lazy. He should just have Matthews take over, much as it would pain him to have two Simmonses in charge.

He watches as Orange Team does its own thing, with more and more troops wandering off to work with Wash or to see what Matthews’s group is up to.

Good. Maybe, by the end of the day, everyone will leave Orange Team for bigger and better things. Grif wouldn’t blame them. He’s not much of a leader.

 

 

The idea hits him the next morning while he’s brushing his teeth. Simmons freezes mid-brush and almost chokes on his excitement.

A training exercise.

He _knows_ Grif is a good soldier. Hell, he’s a great one, no matter what Sarge says.

Grif might not take training—or most other things—seriously, but he _does_ do well under pressure.

Grif is the only person he knows that can drive a Warthog through a metal wall, fight a Freelancer—and win. And when they all went after the Meta, Grif was able to keep a smoking ship airborne long enough to make it in time to rescue Doc and… well, not Church, but in an odd turn of events, they _did_ rescue Agent Washington.

And Grif actually _charged_ the Meta, leapt onto their back to distract them. Maybe not the best strategy, in retrospect, but Grif hadn’t hesitated at all.

Simmons feels a surge of pride for his teammate.

Spitting toothpaste into the sink, Simmons rinses his toothbrush as he begins to form a plan.

So. What if Simmons took a training exercise and upped the stakes?

The only problem is, Simmons isn’t exactly sure how to go about _doing_ that. Especially without killing someone. That’s definitely something to avoid.

Suddenly, he remembers Tucker telling them about the training exercise Agent Washington put together for the blues at Crash Site Bravo.

Simmons washes his face and hurries to put on his power armor, so he can make it to breakfast before Grif gets there.

Arriving in the mess hall, he makes a beeline to the table Tucker, Caboose, Donut, and Agent Washington are all sitting. Then he screeches to a halt—should probably get food first. Less suspicious.

Simmons whirls round on his heel and merges into the crowd headed for the breakfast line. He barely pays attention as the kitchen staff hand him a tray, almost dropping the gray sludge—uh, oatmeal—dehydrated fruit, and crappy instant coffee in his haste to get through the line.

Biting his lip, he shakes his head. _Keep it together, Simmons_. Nearly knocking over several people and their trays, he makes his way to his friends’ table.

Simmons aims for a casual entrance but in his enthusiasm ends up slamming his tray down so hard the entire table looks up.

 _Smooth_.

“Whoa, watch it!” Tucker says, scooting away from Simmons as a bit of coffee sloshes onto the table.

“Uh, sorry,” Simmons says, reaching up to remove his helmet as he slides into his seat beside the aqua—teal? Simmons can never decide—soldier.

 _Natural. Be natural_. Simmons thinks. He swings his arm down to set his helmet on the table. There’s a _smack_ as he collides with Tucker’s shoulder and then Tucker’s helmet, sending flying off the table and skidding across the floor.

“Dude, what the hell?” Tucker complains, rubbing his arm. He starts to stand up but Simmons beats him to it, almost tripping over his seat as he scrambles to retrieve the runaway helmet.

“Shit, sorry!” Simmons apologizes again, handing Tucker his helmet.

Tucker snatches it from Simmons’s hand, grumbles something under his breath, and goes back to eating.

Pushing his tray aside, Simmons leans in towards Agent Washington, who’s sitting across from Tucker.

Simmons clears his throat. “So, uh, how’s it… how’s it going?” he asks.

Agent Washington, coffee in hand, stops mid-sip and raises an eyebrow. He sets the cup down. Glances around, looking for who Simmons is talking to. When he realizes Simmons is talking _to him,_ he says, “It’s… going well, I guess?”

“That’s good!” Simmons says, a bit too cheerily. _Dial it back, Rich._ He clears his throat again. “Hey, question for you?”

The agent eyes him.

“…Yes?” he asks, cautious.

“Um, yeah, what kind of, uh, training exercises did you have back, you know, in your old Freelancer days?” Simmons asks.

The table goes dead silent and all eyes lock on Simmons. Except for Tucker, who’s too busy choking on his oatmeal. Donut pounds on Tucker’s back. When the teal soldier finally catches his breath, his head swings up to ogle Simmons and he mouths, _Dude, what the fuck_?

Agent Washington’s eyes widen and he blinks a few times like he’s rewinding the question in his head before furrowing his brow. His eyes narrow.

Simmons regrets his life.

“You know,” Simmons squeaks, “I just remembered I left my, uh, my—thing for—it’s just back in—my room, so—Bye!”

Simmons grabs his helmet, jumps up from the table and sprints out of the mess hall.

New rule: Never use the Project F-word in front of Agent Washington and Carolina.

“Idiot,” he curses himself as he speed-walks down the hall.

He’ll have to settle for plan B, then. The armory. Sarge has plenty of… supplies there.

Simmons takes a sharp left and almost crashes head on into Grif.

“Jesus, Simmons!” Grif hisses, leaping out of the way and grabbing Simmons by the arm before the maroon soldier can topple over.

Simmons shrugs Grif’s hand off. “Watch where you’re going!” Simmons snaps.

“Okay, _you_ were the one running around like a headless chicken, no me,” Grif grumbles. He sounds hurt, and Simmons feels a pang of guilt. But he shoves the feeling aside. He’s on a mission.

Simmons huffs and is about to stalk off when he remembers a key detail of said mission.

“Oh! Grif! I wanted to talk to you!”

Grif raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Let’s, uh, let’s train together today,” Simmons says. “You know, Gold Team and Maroon Team?”

“Orange. Orange Team, Simmons,” Grif corrects him. “I’m fucking orange.”

“Sorry, Orange and Maroon Team?” Simmons shifts on his feet, looking at the floor. “I, uh, I think it would be beneficial for everyone to work together. We could… run some, uh, drills?”

Grif narrows his eyes and looks Simmons up and down.

_He’s onto me he’s onto me he’s—_

“Yeah, sure,” Grif shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

“Great!” Simmons heaves a sigh of relief. He’d been expecting Grif to protest. “Meet on the outdoor training grounds at, uh, fifteen-hundred?”

“Whatever,” Grif says.

“Okay, great, bye then!” Simmons takes off before Grif can change his mind. Before _Simmons_ can change his mind.

 _Now_ , he thinks, setting his jaw. _Let’s see what Sarge has for me._

 

 

When Grif sees the obstacle course Simmons has set up for them, he immediately regrets his decision.

There are hurdles, barrels covered in barbed wire, and other contraptions Simmons expects them to maneuver around. Grif knows two things for certain: he will _not_ be jumping over anything, and he is _not. Running._

The only reason Grif agreed to this dumb teamwork shit is because it’ll give him a chance to kick back while Simmons does everything himself. That, and maybe— _maybe_ —he feels a _tiny bit_ guilty for throwing him under the bus yesterday.

Not that he was sad Sarge’s disappointment was directed at someone other than himself, for once. No, _that_ was nice.

That being sad, his guilt is quickly vanishing as Simmons begins to explain the exercise.

“So, uh, today,” Simmons pauses to clear his throat, “Today, we’re going to be doing a joint training exercise. Everyone will pair up—a Fed and a New on each team.”

There’s an audible groan from somewhere behind Grif, and Bitters says,

“This is stupid.”

“Surely you can think of something better to say than _stupid_ , Antoine,” Jensen retorts.

“Well, _I_ think it’s a _good_ idea,” Matthews chimes in. “Teambuilding exercises are shown to be helpful for teamwork on the battlefield.”

And, because it’s Matthews talking, Grif turns around and _shushes_ them.

Simmons, wringing his hands, nods at Grif as if to thank him.

Grif rolls his eyes and, remembering Simmons can’t see it, shouts,

“Get on with it, Simmons!”

“Maybe if everyone would stop _talking_ , I _could_ ,” Simmons retorts.

“No one’s talking, Simmons,” Grif says.

“I—but— _you’re_ talking, dammit!”

“Only because you keep talking to me,” Grif says with a shrug.

“Just—just shut _up_ , and let me finish!” Simmons snaps.

Grif holds his hands up and takes a step back, gesturing with his hand for Simmons to continue. While it was fun to see Simmons all worked up, he would love to get this shit over with so he can get out of his armor and eat something.

“As I was _saying_.” Simmons turns away from Grif to address the troops crowded around him. “We’re going to be doing an obstacle course. I uh—designed it to test your uh, reflexes and your, um, mettle.”

“Metal?” Matthews says. “Like copper?”

“No, that’s ‘metal’,” Simmons corrects him. “I said ‘mettle’.”

“Come _on_ , let’s just get this _over with_ ,” Bitters groans.

“For once,” Willems says, “We agree on something.”

“Shut up, Wilhelm,” Bitters says.

“It’s _Willems_ ,” Willems growls.

“Whatever,” Bitters sighs.

“ _Just pair up, dammit_!” Simmons screeches.

Everyone shuts up after that and, after twenty minutes of the Feds and News partnering up, fighting with their partners, trading partners, and trading partners again, they all line up, ready to run start the training exercise.

Grif doesn’t move through it all, hoping— _praying_ —he’ll be the odd one out so he won’t have to participate.

His dreams, unrealistic as they may be, are crushed when Simmons comes up beside him and declares, “Grif, you’re with me!”

Grif groans.

“Why do _we_ have to do this, Simmons?” he asks. “Aren’t we Captains? Shouldn’t we, you know, make everyone _else_ do the work?”

Simmons crosses his arms. “Let’s go, Grif.”

Grif sighs and throws his hands up in the air. Better to get it over with. Once Simmons is attached to a project, you’d have to kill him before he gave up. Besides, he’s the dumbass who agreed to do this.

Before they begin, Simmons turns to address the crowd of disgruntled soldiers one more time.

“As you can see, there are lots of things to get around, and uh, treat this like you would a real battlefield. Like, the barrels could have bombs. Anyway. Shall we, um, get to it?”

The fun begins, and the obstacle course goes about as expected.

Those who can put aside their differences—whether it’s because they actually _want_ to do well or because they’re eager to get to dinner, that’s up to them—finish first. Jensen and Matthews’s teams complete the course ahead of everyone else. Bitters and Alvarez’s teams finish last.

Well, next to last.

Grif has said it a million times, and he’ll say it again: he hates running. If he’s running, so should everyone else, because the only reason he would do that is if zombies are chasing him, or something.

Simmons tries to stay in step with him, but his long legs won’t let him for very long. Eventually, Simmons is a good hundred feet ahead of him, trying his best to hurdle over an old Warthog tire.

 _Well, I gave it the old college try_ , Grif thinks, slowing from a steady trot to a brisk walk. Digging into one of the pouches attached to his power armor, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and stops to light one.

“Come on, Grif, hurry up!” Simmons shouts.

Well, there goes his smoke break.

Looking down at his feet and willing them forward, Grif stuffs his cigarettes back into his pouch and breaks into a light jog. Looking up at Simmons, Grif notices that he’s still a good fifty to a hundred feet away from Grif, flapping his arms like he’s trying to fly away.

Grif grins at the sight, and stops to take a picture with his helmet cam.

“Grif _hurry up_!” Simmons yells again. “Grif—the bombs they’re—"

Unfortunately, Grif doesn’t get to hear what the bombs are, because it’s at that exact moment the barrels behind him explode.

 

 

It’s like a scene out of a movie.

Grif howling as he’s propelled fifty feet into the air, an angry red flower of fire and smoke blooming behind him as he begins his descent to where Simmons gapes at him, frozen. He raises his arms a little, as if he’s planning on catching Grif, who plummets towards him in slow motion. It would almost be funny—if this was a movie.

The wind is knocked out of him as Grif slams down onto Simmons, and they both hit the ground—hard.

“Oof!” Simmons gasps. He doesn’t want to know what would’ve happened if he wasn’t wearing his power armor.

Grif, on the other hand, was mere yards away from an explosion. Steaming and covered in scorch marks, the orange power armor has seen better days. Grif is still breathing, still conscious, and he’s—is he laughing?

“Grif?” Simmons tries to move out from under Grif, but Grif isn’t paying attention enough to catch on and just lays there, ogling Simmons through his visor.

“It’s just—it’s—” Grif wheezes, “It’s like I was flying! What a way to—to meet a guy!”

“Grif?” Simmons heart skips and he stops squirming to look up at Grif. “Uh, Grif, it’s Simmons? You know? Sim-mons?”

“Sssimmons,” Grif says, testing the name out. “Well, Simmons, it’s great to meet you, I’m… uh…”

“Grif,” Simmons interjects. “You’re Grif. Do you know where you are?”

“You get right to it huh, Simon?” Grif says, ignoring him.

“I _what_?”

“At least take me out to dinner first,” Grif giggles before he passes out on top of Simmons.

 

 

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

 _Well, isn’t that how it always goes?_ Simmons thinks. Everyone always says they never expected a prank to go south and fuck everything up.

So, naturally, everything went south and Simmons fucked everything up. The one difference being this went way beyond a simple ‘prank’.

And now here he is, sitting in the hall outside the med bay with a hysterical Matthews while the medics see to Grif.

Simmons silently volunteers Matthews for any transplants Grif might need. If they take any more of his own body, he might as well become a complete robot.

It would serve him right, really. Simmons groans and looks up at the flickering yellow lights on the hallway ceiling. He watches as one of them pops and darkens.

“That’s not ominous at all,” Simmons mutters to himself.

“Whuh?” Matthews stops pacing for a moment to shoot Simmons a curious, albeit teary-eyed, look.

“Nothing,” Simmons sighs. Matthews gulps and continues pacing.

 _If only Grif took training seriously. Then none of this would have happened_ , Simmons tells himself.

Simmons sighs for what feels like the thousandth time.

_This wasn’t Grif’s fault._

No matter how many ties Grif sent Matthews to run his laps, ducked out of strategy meetings to sleep in supply closets, or ‘forgot’ to bring his gun to target practice, he still isn’t the one who rigged those barrels.

Simmons is.

He stares at the burnt-out light, tapping the toe of his boot, hoping to tire himself out. Just can’t seem to sit still. Stop his racing thoughts. He cracks his knuckles, flexes the metal joints of his mechanical hand, scratches his nose. Runs a hand through his fiery hair and clicks his teeth. Looks at anything but the med bay doors.

If he sits there a minute longer, Simmons is going to implode.

Leaping to his feet, he marches away from the med bay. Matthews calls out after him, but Simmons doesn’t register what he’s saying.

Simmons yanks a random door open—supply closet. He bites his lip and slams the door shut, moving further down the hall. He opens another door. Then another. Finally, two supply closets, one bathroom, and a bunk room later, Simmons finds an exit.

Bursting out into the night, Simmons is hit with a shock of chilly air, and he remembers he’s not wearing any armor. This doesn’t slow him down, however. Trying hard to control his breathing (in—out—in—out—in—), Simmons strides away from the base, kicking up clouds of dust as he goes.

Simmons glares ahead as he leaves the New Republic’s base further and further behind. It isn’t until the base is a good four to five hundred yards behind him that he stops in his tracks.

Confident no one followed him, Simmons chucks his rifle at the ground and shouts,

“ _Fuck!_ ”

 

 

Grif is fine.

Been better, but this isn’t the worst shit he’s ever been hospitalized for.

He’s got lots of bruises and scratches, a couple cracked ribs, but no body parts need replacing. Unfortunately, due to the miracles of modern medicine, Grif should be cleared for duty in about a week.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Grif sighs and glares at the suspiciously yellow ceiling of the recovery ward. He was hoping this would bench him for at least a month.

Nope, he’ll be back in action in ‘no time’, according to Dr. Grey.

Of course, lots of things can happen in a week’s time. Maybe, by the time he’s ready to leave the hospital, the war will be over and they can all go home.

Grif sighs. He should be so lucky.

He looks away from the ceiling and notices Wash talking to Dr. Grey in the corner of the recovery ward. Matthews hovers off to the side, pretending not to listen to their conversation, probably waiting for the okay to rush over to Grif.

Maybe Grif _doesn’t_ want to be stuck here for a week.

Grif grimaces over at Matthews, who smiles back, oblivious.

Rolling his eyes, Grif looks around for Simmons. He expected the nerd to come bursting in as soon as the medics were finished tending to him, pissed off that he almost died—again.

Grif strains to see into the hallway as Wash leaves the recovery ward, but all he sees is a dirty gray wall and flickering yellow lights.

Simmons is nowhere to be seen.

 

 

It’s Agent Washington who finds him.

He doesn’t ask why Simmons is all the way out here, doesn’t ask him where his helmet is or why his rifle is several yards away and covered in dirt.

Instead, he says nothing. Just walks up and stands behind Simmons, looking off at the landscape before them.

“He’s going to be fine,” Agent Washington tells him after a few moments of silence.

Relief washes over Simmons, but he clenches his jaw and says nothing.

“Just some cuts and bruises, a few cracked ribs,” Agent Washington continues.

“Cracked ribs?” Simmons exclaims. Still seated, he turns and strains to look up at the ex-Freelancer standing over him.

“Nothing too serious.” Agent Washington holds his hand up, as if that will calm Simmons down. “Grey says he can be back in… _action_ in about a week.”

Simmons doesn’t like the way Agent Washington says ‘action’.

“Great,” Simmons replies, shifting once more to look back at… well, nothing really. Just some cliffs and stuff. Simmons is more of a forest guy.

“Should we head back?” Agent Washington asks.

“Uh, I’m fine right here,” Simmons mumbles. “Thanks for, uh, telling me though.”

Agent Washington shifts on his feet. Simmons isn’t looking at him, but he can feel the tension between them as the ex-Freelancer searches for something to say.

“You know,” Agent Washington finally breaks the silence. “Someone set those explosives with the intention of them going off.”

Simmons feels his mechanical heart shriek as he about dies of panic.

“Oh—Oh really? That’s uh, not good,” Simmons says. ‘ _Not good’?_ Goddammit, Rich.

“Simmons, I know it was you.” Agent Washington’s voice has an edge to it now.

Forcing himself to look over at the figure towering over him, Simmons swallows and resists the urge to run.

“I just—” Agent Washington sounds like he’s gearing up for a lecture. “I just think Captain Grif deserves an explanation, that’s all. And an apology.”

“Oh, yeah?” Simmons jumps back to his feet. His voice sounds angrier than he expected it too. Agent Washington takes a step back, shocked by Simmons’s sudden outburst.

That makes two of them.

“Grif deserves an explanation, an apology?” Simmons balls his hands into fists, taking a step towards Agent Washington. “You wanna—you want to know what _I_ think, Agent Washington?”

It’s clear by the way Agent Washington takes another step back that he isn’t too keen to hear what Simmons thinks, but he doesn’t protest either.

Which isn’t great for Simmons, who has no idea what he was hoping to tell Agent Washington.

 _What the fuck_ do _you think, dumbass_? Simmons scrambles for something to say, considers running away for a moment. No—the ex-Freelancer would catch him. He’s way faster.

At this point Simmons realizes he’s been glaring at Agent Washington for a good thirty seconds and, flustered, blurts out the first thing he can think of.

“I think Donut deserves an explanation, and an apology,” Simmons spits.

Agent Washington starts, like he’s been slapped, and Simmons feels a pang of guilt, followed by more anger.

Donut may have forgiven Agent Washington for what happened, but Simmons still remembers holding Donut in his arms, thinking he was dead, mourning his loss.

“Simmons, Donut and I…” Agent Washington seems to shrink a little. “We’ve talked about it. At length. And I—I’m trying to make amends too.”

Simmons blinks.

“Oh,” is the only response he can muster.

“I’m… gonna head back to base,” Agent Washington says.

He spins on his heel and starts walking away. After a few steps he halts and looks over his shoulder at Simmons.

“I’m sorry, Simmons,” he says. “And I know you’ll do the right thing.”

With that, the ex-Freelancer jogs away.

Simmons watches him go, deflating as the anger whooshes out of him.

“Goddammit, I have to tell Grif, don’t I?” he asks no one in particular.

He’s answered by a gust of wind and then silence.

With a sigh, Simmons grabs his gun and trudges back to base.

 

 

Grif has long since shooed Matthews away and eaten all his dinner when Simmons finally walks through the doors to the recovery ward.

He doesn’t trust the look on Simmons’s face when he enters. Cheeks red, eyes darting back and forth, he’s looking at anything, anyone, but Grif.

Fidgeting with the stiff white sheet the medic tossed over him, Grif waits for Simmons to make eye contact with him as he approaches the bed.

He doesn’t.

 

 

“I just… I feel bad for, you know, the explosion and you getting hurt and stuff,” Simmons says.

“Not hurt enough…” Grif says with a wistful sigh.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Grif flaps his hand at Simmons. “’Sides, it’s not like it’s _your_ fault. If anyone’s responsible, I’d bet my snack stash on Sarge.”

“Uhhhmmm.” Simmons swallows. “Looks like you’ll have to give up your stash, because it, uh, it wasn’t Sarge.”

Grif frowns.

“Okay, first of all,” Grif says, holding up a finger, “that was a completely hypothetical bet. No one is getting my food. Second, it was a freak accident, Simmons, you didn’t know they were actually going to blow. Third, if someone _did_ put live freaking explosives in those barrels, and it _wasn’t_ Sarge, then who the fuck did it, Simmons?”

Grif is staring at him like he can see straight through his skull and into his thoughts. Simmons feels his face go hot, and he wishes he hadn’t taken his goddamn armor off.

Even though he’s like, 95% sure Grif knows Simmons is guilty, he tries one more time to save his ass.

“Nnooo it’s probably like you said. A—a freak accident,” Simmons stammers. “Who—who would set live charges in the middle of a _training_ exercise? That’s very irresponsible! People could get—they could get hurt! Hey—!”

“Simmons—” Grif tries to interrupt.

“Hey, you remember Tucker telling us about Agent Washington’s ‘training exercise’ he put together for him and Caboose at Crash Site Bravo?” Simmons continues, making finger quotes around the words _training exercise_.

“Simmons.”

“He used bombs, and real bullets, and—and, you know, exploding stuff,” Simmons rambles on. “I bet _he_ did it, and just doesn’t want to say anything because you almost—you could’ve died. I bet—”

“Simmons!”

Simmons stops jabbering and, realizing he’s been staring at his hands, looks up at Grif.

Grif’s brow furrows in disbelief, and he blinks. For just a second, Simmons thinks he sees a spark of anger in the orange soldier’s eyes. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and Grif’s face relaxes as it morphs from disbelief to disappointment to acceptance. The right corner of his mouth twitches—disgust? It certainly isn’t amusement—and he crosses his arms.

“You rigged the bombs, didn’t you?”

It isn’t a question, not really, and Simmons doesn’t offer up an answer. He just goes back to inspecting the dirt underneath his fingernails as the two of them sit in silence for a few more minutes. When Simmons sneaks a glance at Grif, Grif’s eyebrows narrow and his nostrils flare.

The anger’s back, and this time Simmons has a feeling it won’t disappear as fast.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Grif asks, his voice hitching up an octave. “I mean, Jesus, Simmons, I could have died. For real.”

“I—I thought maybe if you knew the explosives were live you’d, well, you’d uh—”

“I’d what?” Grif snaps. “Run faster? You know I hate running.”

“Well, I—”

“And how was I supposed to know they were real, Simmons?” Grif goes on. “It was a goddamn training exercise!”

“I mean, I told you they _could_ be live, and it’s—it’s not like we haven’t had more life-threatening ‘exercises’,” Simmons says, shuddering at the memory of Sarge’s more… creative plans.

He knows he’s making excuses—and so does Grif. Part of him, however, hopes Grif will take it and this argument will be over. That’s what they’re good at. Sort of kind of making up and then never bringing it up again.

“The difference here, Simmons,” Grif says, lowering his voice, “Is that _I_ wasn’t the only one you could’ve hurt—or killed. Simmons, _you could have killed someone_. Which I expect from Sarge, but from you?”

Simmons isn’t sure what to say without digging himself an even deeper hole. He wants to yell at Grif, tell him he’s wrong, tell him the other troops were nowhere near the barrels, tell him even if there were others nearby, they were smart enough to get out of the way.

It’s always been difficult for Simmons to admit when he’s made a mistake. There’s no room for mistake in war. Fake wars, Freelancer drama, civil war in the middle of nowhere—it didn’t matter. Mistakes equal weakness, which is something Simmons cannot afford. For him, making a mistake is right up there with murder.

Which… he was also very close to committing today.

“I’m uh. I’m sorry you were almost blown up,” he mumbles, tearing his eyes away from his hands to look at Grif.

Grif rolls his eyes.

“You mean, ‘I’m sorry I put _literal bombs_ in those barrels and almost killed you’?” he snorts, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry I almost killed you, Dex,” Simmons says. “I made a huge mistake, and I’m sorry.”

Grif looks him up and down, and Simmons feels his heart plummet into his feet as he waits for Grif to tell him to fuck off.

“Okay,” Grif says with a shrug.

“Oh—Okay?” Simmons blinks.

“Yeah, okay,” Grif repeats.

An odd turn of events, Simmons thinks. Grif isn’t normally so forgiving, there’s usually—

“But,” Grif goes on (there it is), “You gotta let me have more _me time_ , Simmons.”

“More… _you_ time?” Simmons asks, even though he knows exactly what Grif is getting at.

“Yeah, so, when, for example, I decide I want to nap in a supply closet and eat candy,” Grif says, “Just, you know, look the other way.”

Simmons crosses his arms.

“Right,” he huffs, “Like I’m going to let you just—just _sleep_ while everyone works their ass off?”

“Yes,” Grif says with a nod. “Besides, do you really want me in charge? You and I both know Kimball and the Freelancers are _way_ better equipped to train an army.”

“Hey, you’ve got leadership experience!” Simmons protests.

They both do, in fact. Simmons may not be Freelancer material, but he doesn’t believe that’s a requirement for being a good leader. Sarge was never a Freelancer.

Okay, bad example.

“Yeah, and look how well _that_ went,” Grif scoffs.

“Well we—we all make mistakes,” Simmons says.

Simmons glances around the recovery ward and, taking in the yellowing walls, the scurrying medics, the other occupied—and freshly unoccupied—beds. His eyes drift back to Grif, occupying a bed of his own, hooked up to an IV and wrapped in bandages.

Everyone makes mistakes. Not everyone almost blows up their best friend—the guy they _love_ —out of sheer annoyance and ‘good intentions’ that are severely misguided.

“If anyone should throw in the towel, it should be me,” Simmons says with a sigh. “I tried to blow you up to teach you a lesson. Some leader _I_ am.”

Grif lets out a short laugh, wincing a bit. Simmons remembers he’s got cracked ribs and grimaces.

“Simmons, if there’s one thing I know about you for sure, petty nerd or not, you’re good at this soldier thing,” Grif says. “Even if you are an insufferable kiss-ass.”

“Please,” Simmons says. He feels his face go hot— _again_. “I’m useless. All I’m good for is following orders. You at least take initiative—even if that means taking the initiative to hide in some remote corner of the base.”

“What can I say, Simmons,” Grif sighs. “I’m a maverick, I go my own way.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. Well, his eye. He’s not sure what his red eye does when the rolls his eyes. He’ll have to practice in the mirror later.

Grif appears to be in better spirits, which is good, but Simmons can’t help but feel like there’s something Grif isn’t saying. Grif has never wanted to be a leader, sure. But he _is_ a good soldier, and a _great_ pilot.

And Grif might be able to fool everyone else, but Simmons knows Grif isn’t sleeping half as much as he claims he is. Most people don’t see Grif out of armor, but Simmons does, and he notices the dark circles under his eyes, hears the fatigue in his voice when it’s unmuffled by his helmet.

 _What are you hiding from_? He wonders.

It’s not until Grif’s eyebrows knit together and the corners of his mouth twitch downwards that Simmons realizes he just asked that question out loud.

“What do you mean, Simmons?” Grif asks. “You know what I’m hiding from—work. Hate it.”

“Bullshit,” Simmons says.

 _Shut the fuck up, Simmons_ , he scolds himself.

“Look, Simmons,” Grif says, voice flat, “I don’t want the responsibility. Okay? Do you know how many people are in my squad?”

Simmons shakes his head. Wonders where Grif is going with this.

“Forty-seven,” Grif answers. “Forty-seven _kids_ , Simmons. Forty-seven lives to fuck up if I don’t do everything absolutely perfect. Forty-seven families I have to answer to, assuming these kids still _have_ families. Forty-seven kids looking at _me_ like _I_ know what the fuck I’m doing? Hell. No. You’re looking at the guy who napped through the massacre of his entire team. And that was only eleven guys.”

Grif pauses. Takes a breath.

“They’re better off with people who know what they’re doing, who aren’t gonna get them killed. Like you, or Carolina, or Wash.”

“Like me?” Simmons feels himself getting angry. “Grif, look, no matter who ends up in charge, _people are going to die_. _We_ could die—fuck, you—you almost died today because I was a petty asshole. You think _I_ should be in charge?”

Grif narrows his eyes, crosses his arms, and says nothing.

“In an ideal world,” Simmons continues, “Everything ends peacefully, no one dies, and we all live happily ever after and return to our respective lives—whatever’s left of them anyway.”

Simmons feels his heart whirring, realizes he’s just rambling at this point. But he can’t seem to stop the words tumbling from his mouth.

“But we don’t live in a perfect world. People die. It’s shitty, it—it _sucks_ , but that’s _war_ , Grif,” Simmons says. “And I think, after everything you’ve been through—after everything we’ve _all_ been through, the fact that we’re still here shows we’re good at _something_.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” Grif asks.

“Living, dumbass!” Simmons cries, exasperated.

Grif opens his mouth to retort but closes it again. For what seems like hours, Grif just stares at Simmons. Simmons, exhausted from his numerous outbursts tonight and anxious for Grif’s inevitable attempt to poke holes in everything he just said, stares right back.

Finally, Grif breaks the silence.

“I didn’t know you were one for motivational speeches, Simmons,” he says.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” Simmons retorts.

“Apparently,” Grif says.

Then he gives Simmons a look that the maroon soldier can’t quite read. It’s somewhere between curious and amused, but something else is there too, and it makes Grif look far away.

Whatever it is, Simmons decides not to read into it too much. His facial analysis skills aren’t the most trustworthy—cyborg eye notwithstanding. He over thinks what he sees, and ends up seeing more than is actually there. So, it’s better to forgo trying altogether, for the sake of maintaining his sanity.

“Well.” Simmons breaks what was about to become another awkward silence. “I suppose… if you try to at least keep the peace between your squad members, I can—uh—I can look the other way—” A huge grin splits Grif’s face— “ _Once in a while_ , Grif!”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Simmons,” Grif says with a flap of his hand.

“You’re impossible,” Simmons sighs.

“You almost blew me up,” Grif says.

“Screw you, fatass,” Simmons snaps.

“Kiss-ass.”

“Dumbass.”

“Nerd.”

Simmons loses track of how many epithets he and Grif end up spewing back and forth, but eventually Grif falls asleep, snoring softly in time with the heart monitor.

Simmons remains at the foot of Grif’s bed, shoulders tense, waiting for the monitor to slow and stop. Logic tells him that he’s being silly, but this is not the first time Simmons almost lost Grif, and he’s afraid it won’t be the last.

It takes him at least an hour for him to breathe normally, slouch a little, and tear his eyes away from the machinery Grif is hooked up to.

Looking back and forth to make sure no one is watching, Simmons pulls a chair up to Grif’s bedside, lays his head down, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to say thank you again to Tackytacs (tackytacs on Tumblr) for working on this with me, and for the amazing artwork. Holy cow. 
> 
> I would also like to thank Wordsy (wordsysayswords on Tumblr), carbsangel on Tumblr, and Tackytacs for helping beta/all your input on the fic. THANK YOU!!!
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading, this has taken over as the longest fic I've ever written. Hope you all enjoyed!


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